


Bleak

by coatsandjumpers



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Angst, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Jealous Dean, M/M, Possessive Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-17 07:50:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2302124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coatsandjumpers/pseuds/coatsandjumpers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>2014 has come to pass. Cas is fallen. Dean is lost. </p><p> </p><p>  <i>Dean didn’t bother thinking about his feelings in general. He had never been the kind to indulge in heartfelt talks that ended with tears, and now more than ever, his mind was a place he’d rather not go. Emotions were unwise when death was around every corner.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Bleak

Beauty can be desolate. Dean supposed he understood that, since the wide-open fields and endless roads he once preferred were quiet, empty, and vast. Man is a social creature, but Dean had never minded silence. There was something almost comforting in the contradiction. For him, home was his car and his brother. Countless hours spent watching yellowed wheat fields blur past were Dean’s impression of elegance, a tranquil atmosphere that felt fragile and temporary. There were times for conversation, music, and laughter, but it always returned to the familiar and comfortable quiet that Dean could only describe as beautiful.

The present wasn’t beautiful. The camp that served as base was bleak, but it held none of the stark beauty desolation could contain. The grounds were too quiet, although shouts rang out constantly. Living spaces were uncomfortably cramped, with tents and shoddy shelters set up back-to-back, but to Dean, the place felt hollow. Everything was grimy. Luxuries of the distant past were no longer available, and running water was a mere memory. Dirt managed to get everywhere, in the shelters, on clothes, underneath fingernails. Dean didn’t mind a bit of dirt; he was used to it. His time in Purgatory had been filled with mud and monsters. And yet, Purgatory had been pure. The filth and the blood hadn’t mattered in the end. In Purgatory, Dean had done what he did best: killed. Purgatory was simple for Dean, but the present was a mess. Dean wasn’t exactly sure who the monsters were anymore, and now, when Dean washed blood off of his hands, he always walked away feeling just a little more stained.

Dean felt as though he could barely remember a time when he took on cases instead of missions. Cases meant a dead monster. Missions meant dead people, collateral damage that Dean supposed didn’t really matter in the end. Still, his memories of his past and his future colliding were vivid. Now that he was on the other side of the timeline, he couldn’t help but wonder at his naivety. His past self had thought he was cynical and hardened. His past self had been right. But something his past self hadn’t realized was how innocent he still was. He might have spent forty years down below, but he hadn’t known hell yet. His younger self hadn’t seen Sam fall to Lucifer; his younger self hadn’t watched Cas fall, little by little until all the grace had burned away, leaving nothing but a confused, hurt human. His younger self had seen the end result, seen Sam as Lucifer and seen Cas as a bitter drug-addict, but Dean had lived it.

Dean’s past self didn’t have to watch Sam say yes to Lucifer and then never say a word as Sam again. Dean, stuck in his hellish present, was the one who fell asleep dreaming of a brother lost to the devil and a broken angel doomed to humanity. Dean pitied his past self, pitied how much he still cared. Dean had learned the hard way that caring wasn’t worth it. There was nothing left now except for revenge. There was no passion in Dean’s revenge. He wanted no cliché vendettas. He knew there was no true satisfaction waiting for him if he killed Lucifer. Dean’s revenge was drive, pure drive, for some non-existent goal. It was hopeless and pointless if he was looking for “closure”, but Dean didn’t care much. The thought of killing Lucifer pushed him through the nights and days, and Dean didn’t bother examining his motives.

Dean didn’t bother thinking about his feelings in general. He had never been the kind to indulge in heartfelt talks that ended with tears, and now more than ever, his mind was a place he’d rather not go. Emotions were unwise when death was around every corner. Apathy mixed with whatever anger Dean had, an odd and contradictory mix that left Dean determined but changed.

His brother was already dead in all the ways that mattered, and Dean didn’t dwell. But the burnt-out man who looked like Cas and called himself Cas but wasn’t Cas, not really, was a constant reminder of the past. Dean hated this Cas’s smile, a grin that never quite reached his eyes. It was crazy in a way the real Cas’s never would have been, too wide, too fake. Dean couldn’t see the little half-mouth quirk the real Castiel would do in this Cas’s smile. There was too much sadness and too much bitterness in the Cas that Dean knew now. His wings were gone, and Dean realized that not much remained.

Dean hated this Cas, but he couldn’t help his jealousy every time Cas called for another one of his ridiculous orgies. Cas had no qualms about sex, and Dean pushed memories of an awkward encounter between the old Cas and a hooker away, reminding himself that that Cas was long gone. Still, Dean felt the jealousy break through his usual apathy, a flare of annoyance that Cas would act like this. Dean felt as though Cas was rubbing everything in his face, the fact that Dean’s Cas was gone and never coming back, the fact that Dean couldn’t save Cas even though he had promised to so long ago, back when his face hadn’t been quite so hard and his faith hadn’t been quite so lost. Dean rejected Cas’s invitations to his orgies once, twice, three times. The fourth time, Dean waited in his cabin until he heard the door to Cas’s cabin open, the footsteps of the women leaving gradually fading away.

Pushing away from the table he had been sitting at, Dean left his building, letting the door slam shut behind him. Dean knew his jealousy and anger were unjustified. He had no real claim to Cas, not when he should have made his move years ago, before Cas had become something twisted and Dean had become something worse. Still, Dean simply felt the single-minded drive he felt when thinking of Lucifer. Cas, no matter how broken, was his. Dean didn’t bother knocking on Cas’s door, choosing instead to enter unannounced. The room smelled distinctly of sex, and Cas was sitting on the bed shirtless, lightly washing with a damp washcloth.

Cas looked up at the sound of Dean’s footsteps, his face briefly registered surprise before slipping quickly into that easy grin Dean hated so much.

“Dean,” Cas said, “You’re late if you’re here for the orgy.”

Dean felt his features darken, every word Cas spoke a glaring reminder of what Dean had lost. Suddenly, Dean wanted nothing more than for Cas to just shut up, to just be quiet and stoic and something he wasn’t any more. At Cas’s bedside now, Dean grabbed the washcloth from Cas and tossed it aside before shoving Cas against the bed frame.

The kiss was rough and Dean was insistent. Cas was willing underneath Dean’s mouth, and Dean felt relieved that Cas couldn’t make any sarcastic, bitter comments. Behind closed lids, Dean could almost believe that this Cas was the right one. The stubble was there, hair as messy as it always was, lips as soft as Dean had imagined them to be. Dean could almost convince himself that it didn’t matter that there was something missing.

Maybe it was the signs of the orgy Cas had just taken part in or maybe it was the white powder stored in plain sight on the table near the bed, but something prevented Dean from believing the lie. Dean felt his frustration rise, his touches getting harsher, his fingers leaving bruises on Cas’s already marked skin. This wasn’t 2009, this wasn’t Cas, and this wasn’t love. Dean fucked Cas selfishly and roughly, fucked him for pleasure and nothing else. Whatever Dean had wanted, whatever Dean had been looking for, he sure as hell wasn’t going to find it here.

Dean didn’t bother with any kind of post-orgasmic haze. He grabbed the washcloth and wiped himself off, tossing it indifferently towards Cas. Already pulling on clothes, Dean stayed silent, the only sound Cas’s slowing breathing. Cas remained where he was, not even bothering to clean himself up. Dean was a fast-dresser; he had to be, what with the alerts in the middle of the night and the whole “living post-Apocalypse” thing. Fully dressed, he walked to the door, turning only once he was already halfway out of Cas’s cabin. He looked back towards Cas, who had his head tilted, a gesture so reminiscent of the past it was painful. Cas looked curious and expectant, as though he was simply waiting to see what Dean was going to do. Dean stared back, wondering how he could explain that what had just happened was a mistake, a hopeless search for something no longer there. It had been a mess of emotion, but it had also been just a fuck and nothing more. It had been strangely impersonal, and it already meant as little to Dean as the orgies meant to Cas. Dean looked at Cas for one more moment before letting his eyes drop as he muttered a quick “thanks” and walked out the door.

**Author's Note:**

> This is way angstier and way bleaker than anything I ever meant to write. I'm a total fluff person, so I have no idea what happened. 
> 
> Also, this is not meant to be a portrayal of a healthy relationship (like at all).


End file.
